else has told you to go screw yourself ? I’m your last resort?’
‘It’s more complicated than that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Did you hear about a shooting in Bayswater this morning?’
‘Sure. Trident are on the case. Black on black. Black teenager took a bullet in the shoulder but it’s not life-threatening. Looks like a turf war.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s not what happened.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says the guy they were shooting at.’ He raised his bottle in salute. ‘Here’s to dodging bullets,’ he said.
‘Please don’t tell me that you’re withholding information,’ scowled the detective. ‘A teenager got shot.’
‘I’m talking to you now, aren’t I? And let’s look on the bright side, shall we? At least it wasn’t coppers doing the shooting.’
Evans sipped his lager and then his eyes widened as a Chelsea player took a shot at goal that was tipped over the crossbar by the keeper.
‘You a Chelsea fan, Dan?’
‘Liverpool,’ said Evans. ‘My grandfather worked on the docks and my dad was a cop.’
‘So how did you end up in London?’
‘We’re never going to be bosom buddies, Jack, so you don’t need my family history.’ He took another drink and then looked at Nightingale like an undertaker measuring him up for a coffin. ‘Look, what you did to the father of that little girl – you know, a lot of guys in the job think you did the right thing. She killed herself, you threw him out of his office window, and there’re plenty out there would have done the same. But that was two years ago. Water under the bridge. Now you’re a civilian, and a civilian who seems to be the catalyst for a hell of a lot of corpses.’
‘It’s been an unlucky few weeks, that’s certainly true.’
‘Unlucky? It’s like you’ve got the plague, Jack. Everyone you talk to turns up dead.’
‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration and you know it.’
‘Yeah? Well, a month ago you were a former cop scraping a living as a private eye and you weren’t even on our radar. Now every time a body turns up Chalmers wants to know where you were.’
‘Chalmers has always had the hots for me,’ said Nightingale.
‘I don’t understand why you keep making a joke about it.’
‘What do you want me to do, Dan? Confess?’
‘You see, you’re doing it now. Your uncle and aunt are dead. He killed her and then topped himself.’
‘Murder-suicide,’ said Nightingale.
‘And then you go and see the guy who killed Robbie.’
‘It was an RTA.’
‘It was a traffic accident when he died, but the guy took a flyer off his balcony while you were talking to him.’
‘He jumped, Dan.’
‘And then you go to Wales claiming that some woman was your sister and she hangs herself.’
Nightingale shrugged and said nothing.
‘You go to see the guy who used to drive Gosling around and he decapitates himself in front of you. Oh, and let’s not forget the gamekeeper who blew his head off with a shotgun while he was talking to you.’
‘You’re starting to sound like Chalmers.’
‘I’ve got to be honest, he’s got a point. All this is going on around you and you’re acting like it’s no big thing.’
‘It’s a huge bloody thing, but what can I do?’
‘You can tell me what you think is going on.’
Chelsea scored and the fans went wild, hugging each other and punching the air in triumph.
Nightingale sipped his drink while his mind raced. He liked Evans and he was a good detective, but there was no way he was ever going to believe what was really happening to Nightingale and the people around him. Evans lived in the real world, a world of criminals and victims, where crimes were solved by examining physical evidence and questioning suspects. Nightingale had come to realise that there was a separate world beyond the physical, a world where demons held the power and where magic and witchcraft were tools as effective as any DNA analysis or fingerprint records. In the car park of the police station
‘It’s more complicated than that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Did you hear about a shooting in Bayswater this morning?’
‘Sure. Trident are on the case. Black on black. Black teenager took a bullet in the shoulder but it’s not life-threatening. Looks like a turf war.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s not what happened.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says the guy they were shooting at.’ He raised his bottle in salute. ‘Here’s to dodging bullets,’ he said.
‘Please don’t tell me that you’re withholding information,’ scowled the detective. ‘A teenager got shot.’
‘I’m talking to you now, aren’t I? And let’s look on the bright side, shall we? At least it wasn’t coppers doing the shooting.’
Evans sipped his lager and then his eyes widened as a Chelsea player took a shot at goal that was tipped over the crossbar by the keeper.
‘You a Chelsea fan, Dan?’
‘Liverpool,’ said Evans. ‘My grandfather worked on the docks and my dad was a cop.’
‘So how did you end up in London?’
‘We’re never going to be bosom buddies, Jack, so you don’t need my family history.’ He took another drink and then looked at Nightingale like an undertaker measuring him up for a coffin. ‘Look, what you did to the father of that little girl – you know, a lot of guys in the job think you did the right thing. She killed herself, you threw him out of his office window, and there’re plenty out there would have done the same. But that was two years ago. Water under the bridge. Now you’re a civilian, and a civilian who seems to be the catalyst for a hell of a lot of corpses.’
‘It’s been an unlucky few weeks, that’s certainly true.’
‘Unlucky? It’s like you’ve got the plague, Jack. Everyone you talk to turns up dead.’
‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration and you know it.’
‘Yeah? Well, a month ago you were a former cop scraping a living as a private eye and you weren’t even on our radar. Now every time a body turns up Chalmers wants to know where you were.’
‘Chalmers has always had the hots for me,’ said Nightingale.
‘I don’t understand why you keep making a joke about it.’
‘What do you want me to do, Dan? Confess?’
‘You see, you’re doing it now. Your uncle and aunt are dead. He killed her and then topped himself.’
‘Murder-suicide,’ said Nightingale.
‘And then you go and see the guy who killed Robbie.’
‘It was an RTA.’
‘It was a traffic accident when he died, but the guy took a flyer off his balcony while you were talking to him.’
‘He jumped, Dan.’
‘And then you go to Wales claiming that some woman was your sister and she hangs herself.’
Nightingale shrugged and said nothing.
‘You go to see the guy who used to drive Gosling around and he decapitates himself in front of you. Oh, and let’s not forget the gamekeeper who blew his head off with a shotgun while he was talking to you.’
‘You’re starting to sound like Chalmers.’
‘I’ve got to be honest, he’s got a point. All this is going on around you and you’re acting like it’s no big thing.’
‘It’s a huge bloody thing, but what can I do?’
‘You can tell me what you think is going on.’
Chelsea scored and the fans went wild, hugging each other and punching the air in triumph.
Nightingale sipped his drink while his mind raced. He liked Evans and he was a good detective, but there was no way he was ever going to believe what was really happening to Nightingale and the people around him. Evans lived in the real world, a world of criminals and victims, where crimes were solved by examining physical evidence and questioning suspects. Nightingale had come to realise that there was a separate world beyond the physical, a world where demons held the power and where magic and witchcraft were tools as effective as any DNA analysis or fingerprint records. In the car park of the police station
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